


Funnel Cakes and Falling

by Dashicra1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anathema and Newt are there in the background, And together they are sappy, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale works the funnel cake booth, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley and Aziraphale work at a fairground, Crowley works the drop tank/splash tank, Fairground workers, Falling In Love, How did I manage to get plot in here, M/M, Sass master Anathema, This is just sweet and kind and happy, Valentine's Day Fic Exchange, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29421735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dashicra1/pseuds/Dashicra1
Summary: For the last decade, Aziraphale Fell has been working a simple job, running the funnel cake booth at the local fairgrounds. He's comfortable in his routine, perfectly happy to continue on the way he has been. That is, until some booths get shifted around and he's faced with a new coworker across the path.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 85





	Funnel Cakes and Falling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CinnabarMint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnabarMint/gifts).



> Hello, everyone! Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you enjoy my self-indulgent little fic. This was written as a Valentine's gift exchange, and I had a ton of fun with it! 
> 
> Also, shout-out to my incredible beta reader, saintofnovember/eganantiquus, and also to all the friends who listened to me rant about this! You rock!!! <3

Aziraphale Fell was 35 years old and working at a fairground. He’d always imagined that by this age, he’d have been able to afford his own little bookshop somewhere, something nice and quiet and simple that would house his book collection and perhaps a small flat upstairs. He’d have been content, even if he was alone. He’d have his own place to return to at night, to care for, and the only sounds and sights he’d need to contend with would be those he’d chosen for himself. 

Unfortunately, the world had not been quite so kind to him even after he’d gotten his degree in Library Science at 23, and he’d floated about until he was eventually offered a job working for his brother’s company. His brother’s  _ fair-organizing  _ company. This had been nearly a decade ago, Aziraphale was  _ still _ working for Skyrise Ltd., and there was no end in sight. 

At least the original fairground overseers had listened to Aziraphale’s preferences to some extent and placed him in a role which he could perform with utmost efficacy. It was something Aziraphale enjoyed, something that would put smiles on faces and leave him with all the time in the world to think. Six days a week, from noon to eight, Aziraphale brewed tea and mixed hot cocoa, made funnel cakes and candy floss and toffee apples. His booth was far enough from the rides so as to be almost quiet, with only the distant noise of mechanical movement and laughter to gauge the time. His customers would gleefully pass over their tickets, he’d whip up their treat, and they’d be on their way, content to overlook the man behind the counter in favor of the lights and sounds that the fairground offered. It was a bit less than ideal, perhaps, but he had the mornings to himself, some savings built up, and a little flat in the town, and that was good enough. All was well.

That is to say, all was well until a certain Tuesday, when Skyrise Ltd.’s fairground ride and game-booth contractors decided that they needed to expand their reach into Aziraphale’s quiet section of the fair. Their take in the game was obviously proportional to the value of their attractions―that is, the number of tickets that were used for each specific attraction―and it must’ve made perfect sense to them to move the pleasant Mme. Tracy and her palm-reading tent to the far side of the fairgrounds in favor of something more exciting. They’d apparently sent in the construction folk after-hours Monday evening, and when Aziraphale arrived on Tuesday afternoon, he turned to greet Mme. Tracy (as was custom) and found, to his horror, that she’d been replaced with--

_ Him.  _

Aziraphale had no idea who the man was, or what his name was, or where he’d come from, and he didn’t care. He saw flaming red, tied-back hair which would likely have reached to the man’s shoulders if left loose, striking silver piercings in his ears, and a wiggling, swirling tattoo of a serpent on the side of his face. The man wore a skin-tight-- _ good lord-- _ black wetsuit. The suit even had honest-to-goodness  _ cartoon flames _ printed on it, which crawled up and around his legs and chest. He was seated on a little bench, suspended over a tank of water, swinging his feet and shouting loudly enough at the young man setting up the dunk tank’s ticket-taking podium that Aziraphale’s quiet little section of the grounds rang with it. A sign flashed above the fiery man’s head--DUNK-A-PALOOZA: MAKE HIM FALL!

Aziraphale couldn’t get to his own booth quickly enough.

After shrugging into his apron and flipping the switch to light his stall’s flashing sign, he did his best to let his routine lull him back into the bustle of the fairgrounds. However, this time, Aziraphale found himself startled out of his rhythm every few minutes, when he would hear the man across the way badger some innocent fairgoer until they gave in and sought to teach him a lesson via a well-placed throw of a softball and a nice, cold drop into the tank. 

Aziraphale worked desperately to ignore him, humming some of his favorite Schubert pieces and making a few extra spools of candy floss just to hear the whir of the machine. Despite his best efforts, some of the things the man said filtered through, and quite frankly, Aziraphale had half a mind to march over and give him a good dunk himself. 

“Hey, Aziraphale! How goes the confectionery racket?” 

Anathema Device, the American woman whose booth sold kitschy versions of witchcraft paraphernalia and crystals and the like, smiled up at him from across the front counter. He checked his watch: ten past four. She was right on schedule, as always. 

“Oh, please, Anathema. It’s not as if I’m peddling illicit substances. ‘Racket,’ indeed.” Aziraphale passed over her customary toffee apple and tea, careful to ensure that none of the toffee would drip onto her fingers. 

Anathema was one of his favourite customers, though she was a fairground employee and did not need to pay tickets for her once-daily treat. Anathema had made a point of stopping by his booth during her lunch instead of trying out the “reprehensible excuses for pizza,” or so she called them, that some of the other food stalls offered. They’d developed a certain rapport, and he considered Anathema and the recently-relocated Tracy to be two of his closest friends, though he only saw them once or twice a day. At the thought of Tracy, he recalled why his day had been so miserable up until this point and his mood soured again. 

“So,” Anathema began, and her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “What do you think of those new drop tank boys?”

As if on cue, a satisfying  _ ding _ and a splash sounded from the drop tank, and Aziraphale couldn’t suppress a too-wide smile of his own. “Well, they’re certainly rowdy. I believe that I could very much do without them.”

Anathema leaned forward and propped her elbows on his counter. He didn’t have the heart to chastise her for it, though he made a mental note to thoroughly wipe it all down after she’d gone. “But it’s good eye-candy though, huh?"

Aziraphale placed his hands behind his back and fiddled with the ties of his apron. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure, Aziraphale. Of course.” She laughed and set her chin on her hands. “Personally, I think the one with the dark hair is my favorite. Less rock star and more accountant in the looks department, but hey, tall and dark’s still two out of three.”

He refused to look up from the counter, but he knew that she wouldn’t let this go. He checked his watch. Nearly half-past. “Right, yes. I’m sure you’d have no trouble, ah,  _ reeling him in, _ so to speak, lovely and intelligent as you are. And  _ he _ at least seems to be a quiet fellow. Unlike that… other one.”

Aziraphale, despite himself, chanced a look across the way, and his cheeks flamed almost instantly at what he saw. The man in question was now at least twenty dunks into the afternoon. His hair had come loose from its tie at some point and now hung in dripping, deep scarlet waves down the sides of his face. He had thrown his head back, laughing at some insult or other that a fairgoer had yelled at him, and his smile showed off some unexpected dimples in his cheeks. He looked exhausted and energetic all at once, like an overcharged battery or a car pushed to its limits on the motorway. He had to be cold and wet and not at all comfortable, perched on that little seat for hours on end and forced to play the fool. Aziraphale wanted to help him. 

“Yes, I can see you’re not attracted to him  _ at all.”  _ Anathema hid her smile behind a hand.

“I did say as much, my dear,” Aziraphale replied, and he set himself to more industrious tasks, like organizing the tea boxes into alphabetical order. Once a librarian, always a librarian.

After a few more minutes of discussion about a nonsensical book of prophecy they’d both had occasion to read over the weekend, Anathema took her leave of him, long hair and skirts swishing mysteriously behind her and reminding him of the witch she was. He breathed a sigh of relief and loneliness as he watched her go, thankful for at least one person who had proven to be a constant in his life even while he dutifully wiped the traces of her off of his countertop. He thought of Tracy, off in some invisible corner and no doubt causing some good-natured laughter and smiles as she plied her trade. He missed her biting wit, her warm disposition, her inclination toward vibrant wigs and dresses. His resentment of the dunk-tank men came flooding back. He checked his watch (5:15) and began to dip a few extra toffee apples. 

“Um. Hey.” 

Aziraphale tilted his head, irritated by the interruption, but did not yet turn toward the customer. “Yes, can I help you?”

“Well, yeah, I mean. Unless you’d rather me come in there and make my own cuppa. I’d do it, but fair warning, there’ll be water all over your kitchen.” 

A swooping sensation lodged in Aziraphale’s stomach, and he carefully placed the last of the apples onto the cooling rack. “Aha. You are the new dunk tank target across the path, yes?”

The man laughed. It sounded as surprisingly genuine and non-threatening as it had while he’d been in the tank, and Aziraphale finally turned to look at him. He was just as lovely up close, tall and lean and endearingly pointy even wrapped in a soft purple towel. A pair of fancy sunglasses rested on the bridge of the man’s nose and hid his eyes from view. Aziraphale focused on his own pale-beige reflection in the lenses and was glad to see that his expression looked more put-out than flustered. He fought down a sudden urge to straighten his own already-immaculate bow tie.

“Eh, I wouldn’t really say I’m the  _ target.  _ People have thrown things at me directly before, though. Newt’s decent at keeping them calm enough to hit the bullseye instead of me, but some people are unreasonable. I tell you, if they didn’t have that mesh thing up in front of the tank to keep the odd solid object from going my way, Highrise’d have to pay me a whole lot more.”

Aziraphale took a moment to process this. “Newt?”

“Ah, yup. Short for Newton. He’s my booth partner. Takes the tickets. Good kid.”

“Oh, of course.”

An awkward silence descended upon them, but before Aziraphale could think of something more clever to say, the man spoke up again. 

“Do you have a name, angel? Mine’s Crowley. Well, Anthony Crowley, technically, but the  _ Anthony _ part’s just for business cards and the government.”

Aziraphale blinked and looked down at his chest where his nametag would ordinarily reside, only to be met with a glaring blank spot. In his earlier rush to escape  _ Crowley  _ and get to his own booth _ ,  _ it seemed he had forgotten to put it on. He was halfway to frowning at his oversight when the nickname caught up with him, and his mouth dropped open without his say-so. 

“Aziraphale,” he said, too quickly. He inhaled slowly, and the next attempt was measured and calm, much to his relief. “My name is Aziraphale. Forgive me if this is blunt, but how on earth did you arrive upon  _ angel  _ as a moniker?”

Crowley ducked his head, and a few tendrils of still-dripping hair brushed his collarbones. “Well. Your apron’s got Highrise’s logo on it, ‘s a pair of wings, right? And, um. You reminded me of one? Sort of. Like in a painting. All glowy.” He looked as if he wanted to sink through the floor. 

Aziraphale allowed a smile. “Yes, well. Fairground lighting does tend to promote a certain glow, now that you mention it. I don’t care much for it myself, though I suppose I can understand the appeal.” 

Crowley let out a shaky breath and nodded.

“Can I get you some tea, then?” Aziraphale asked brightly, excited to return to something more routine. “You’d mentioned making some for yourself before, but I have a reputation to uphold. My tea-making skills are quite renowned, if I do say so myself. I wouldn’t deprive you of the opportunity to see them in action. And of course, this way I can avoid the need to mop the floor.” 

“Mnm. Yeah, that sounds. That sounds great. A nice, strong breakfast would be good, if that’s alright. No cream, two sugars? Actually, whatever you have on hand is fine. I usually drink coffee, but honestly I’d settle for anything warm,” Crowley said, and for the first time, Aziraphale noticed that he was shivering, ever so slightly. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear. I suppose it is the middle of January, isn’t it? It can’t be pleasant. And it’ll be dark soon, too! Goodness. Perhaps you had better take this and find someplace warm.”

That confusing twinge of care for Crowley sprang to the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind, and instead of pushing it down like he had previously, he decided to examine it for a moment.

As he set the kettle on to boil and began to make a perfect, hot cup of tea, he thought through the interactions they’d just shared, cataloguing them and attempting to parse their meaning. He wondered if he’d been flirting with Crowley. His eyes flicked down to the light blue angel wings across the front of his apron, and he wondered if  _ Crowley _ had been flirting with  _ him _ .

“Um, angel? I--Wait, sorry, Aziraphale, I didn’t mean to use the name again--”

Aziraphale laughed softly and pressed a steaming tea, no cream, two sugars, into Crowley’s finely-trembling hands. “I don’t mind if you call me that, Crowley. I don’t believe it was intended as an insult, so I’m not offended. Now, would you please find somewhere you can curl around a heater before you risk your health any more? That towel of yours is all well and good, but I’m shivering just looking at you.”

“Yup,” Crowley said, “me too.” Suddenly, his eyes went so wide that they could be seen behind his glasses. “I mean. I’ll just. Right.”

***

The next several weeks were some of the best of Aziraphale’s life, and he attributed most of his happiness to the dunk tank across the path and the man who worked in it. Crowley only worked from noon to five, but after Crowley’s shift was done and if Aziraphale wasn’t terribly busy, he’d come over to chat. Sometimes he stayed until Aziraphale’s own shift came to an end, only ducking out to change into his everyday clothing, and other days he lounged in the back room until Aziraphale got busy and had to suggest he leave for the evening. They’d shared so much of themselves in their time together that Aziraphale couldn’t help but think  _ fondly _ of him. On day fifteen, he’d comforted Aziraphale and talked him down with gentle words when he was overwhelmed by the crush of people and light and  _ too much.  _ On day twenty, he’d quietly taken a rain check on their post-5:00 chat when Aziraphale wasn’t feeling up to it, even without customers to impede the evening. He never pressed, never prodded, and always let Aziraphale have control of the conversation.

Aziraphale worked to remind himself that it had only been a month since they’d met, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Crowley was rapidly becoming Aziraphale’s favourite person. He was considerate and witty and kind, and he did his job with such zest that Aziraphale would’ve believed he had been doing it all his life if Crowley hadn’t confessed to him otherwise. 

It turned out that Crowley’s lifelong passion had been astronomy _.  _ He’d been cast out of the house when he was eighteen and told that he was fated to a life of labor and odd-jobs rather than telescopes and physics, and he had believed it. The next eighteen years had been hard ones for Crowley, and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to encourage him, to help him follow his dreams, to tell him he was enough. That _caring_ instinct continued to baffle him, but he’d mostly come to terms with it around day ten.

It was some consolation for his own frazzled nerves to see Anathema look so delicately flustered during their lunch break conversations, which had become rather shorter recently to give her time to collect an extra treat and take it over to Newton. Newton was a bright young man, and very sweet, and Anathema told Aziraphale as much at length. Valentine’s Day was in two days, but Anathema had been whispering her grand plans to him over tea for weeks. He was happy for her, even if their lost time weighed rather more heavily on him than he’d care to admit.

As he opened up shop on Friday, he wondered about Tracy, too. He’d seen her in passing that morning while he walked from the employee entrance to his booth, and she’d given him a warm, if perfunctory, smile and wave as she’d set up her tent. He imagined he’d seen a distinctly mischievous expression cross her face, but then again, it was Tracy, and she always had something or other up her colourful sleeve. He’d found himself thankful from time to time that she’d been moved away from him, and the guilt bubbled up like a spring whenever he thought of it. He was almost certain she wouldn’t mind his newfound friendship with Crowley, but it still hurt to think that he might be replacing one with the other. 

At any rate, none of this mattered on Friday afternoon because Crowley stood before him, shivering, with a bruise on his forehead, and Aziraphale had far more to worry about than the state of his friendships.

“Oh, my dear! What’s happened? Do you need a compress? Or a doctor? I’ll fetch the fairground medic,” he said, and ushered Crowley around the back and into the storage area of his booth with mounting urgency. 

“No, no. S’fine, angel. Wasn’t expecting the throw, went down fast, an’ got knocked a bit on the way, that’s all. ‘Sides, no real use for a compress when it’s bloody freezing out there anyway.” Crowley’s knees were quaking a bit, and he looked grateful to be out of the wind. February had dragged a magnificent cold front through England, and Crowley was the only worker at the fair who couldn’t bundle up against the chill during his shift. The thought had sent Aziraphale into a righteous snit a few times. Unfortunately, he could only bring himself to vent about it to the candy floss machine. 

It was a slow evening for a Friday, likely due to the cold, and Aziraphale decided to take the chance and leave his post. After he’d settled Crowley onto the single chair in the back room, dried him off, and draped his own favourite fleece blanket over Crowley’s shoulders, Aziraphale set about making a cup of coffee, no cream and two sugars. A week after they’d made their acquaintance, Aziraphale had gone to the shop and picked up some instant coffee for Crowley’s personal use. Though the quality left something to be desired, Crowley had been thankful nonetheless. 

“What on earth distracted you so much that you didn’t see the throw, dear? You’ve always had your falling down to an art.” 

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley when no answer was forthcoming. Instead of the curled-up vision of half-frozen misery he’d expected, he saw an attentive Crowley, leaned toward him, hands clenched over his knobby knees. He was on the edge of his seat, literally. Aziraphale wondered how the process of making instant coffee could possibly be so interesting. All at once, Crowley seemed to sober himself. A flush stole over his cheeks, and he made a show of leaning extravagantly back in the fold-up chair. The effect was more absurd than cool, but Aziraphale’s insides warmed anyway.

“Well, I was thinking about what I might do for Valentine’s. Not much use going it alone, is there? So, well. I. Was thinking.”

Aziraphale pressed the coffee cup into Crowley’s waiting hands and tried not to gawp too overtly when their fingers brushed. He waited for Crowley to continue, accustomed by now to his speech patterns. 

“Valentine’s is on Sunday this year, right? Your day off?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Aziraphale said, completely lost and trying not to show it.

“Well. Um. I was thinking. I put in for an extra day off. For Valentine’s. And I thought you might-- _ we _ might. Go together.” 

At some point, Crowley had set the coffee cup on the tiny table beside him in favour of tugging at damp tendrils of hair and picking at the seams of his wetsuit. Aziraphale focused on Crowley’s movement, strangely calmed by the familiar restlessness. After a moment, he realised that he hadn’t fully processed what Crowley had asked of him.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Crowley stopped his fluttering. He took a deep breath and sat up straight, as if preparing to run, or perhaps to be chased away. “I was wondering if you’d like to go with me. For Valentine’s. If you’d maybe want to go together.”

A vibrant rush of sound and color flooded Aziraphale’s mind, as if the world had suddenly shifted into focus. “Go together? Where would we...?”

“Anywhere,” Crowley breathed, and he was leaning toward him again. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Dinner, a show--we could even stick around here, ‘f you like. I’ll win you a stuffed, uh, whatever kind of animal. Just say the word.” He gulped and turned his face away. “Sorry, that was a lot. I’m. I’ll go.”

“No!” Aziraphale shouted, and he immediately felt himself flush with embarrassment at the outburst. His next words were almost a whisper, but he knew Crowley was listening. “Please stay. I was only surprised.” 

Crowley obediently settled back into the chair, though he was still coiled tense as a spring. Yellow evening light filtered in from the little window in the backroom wall and set Crowley’s hair alight with golds and reds, made stars of the freckles on his cheeks and nose. He was so beautiful. Aziraphale wanted to cry.

“Crowley,” he said, “you must tell me exactly what this means. I don’t want to misunderstand you.” 

A long, slender hand braved the distance and took hold of one of Aziraphale’s own. Crowley’s dark nail polish contrasted against the pink warmth of Aziraphale’s skin. “I...I like you. A lot, Aziraphale. And I want to be your friend.” His other hand slowly reached for his sunglasses, slipped them off, set them aside. “If you’ll have me, I’d like to be more, too. Romantically, I mean.”

Aziraphale stared at him for several moments. “Oh, Crowley, I--” 

Then, a particularly boisterous noise, courtesy of a group of overzealous fairground patrons, shattered the moment. 

Aziraphale huffed irritably. “For heaven’s sake, what atrocious timing.”

Crowley laughed, but for once he seemed to be holding himself back. “Is this the part where you ask me to go for the evening? It’s fine if it is. You don’t have to answer me now. I just. Wanted you to know.”

Overcome, Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s hand more tightly in his own. “Crowley. You are such a lovely person, and I consider you one of my dearest friends.” He took a breath, and Crowley’s fingers tensed. “I also consider you to be the most wonderful and beautiful man I’ve ever met. I would be honored to be escorted by you this Valentine’s. Romantically, as you said.” 

At once, all the tension left Crowley’s body, and he slumped back into the chair as if he’d suddenly lost the use of his spine. His smile was wide and breathtaking, and Aziraphale could barely contain a beaming grin of his own. Then Crowley spoke, brimming with enthusiasm and relief, and Aziraphale was very, very confused by what he said.

“Oh, thank somebody! This is the best night of my life. I’m gonna buy Tracy steak dinners for a month.” 

“Tracy?” Aziraphale asked, mind working overtime to try to form the connection. “The fortuneteller? Madame Tracy? What does she have to do with this? How do you know her?” 

Crowley sat bolt upright. If he’d lost the use of his spine before, it had returned with a vengeance now. “Um. She. Uh. Might’ve. Helped me out? With this?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and tried very hard not to panic or be cross. “Please explain, Crowley. How has she helped you?”

The unnatural rigidity in Crowley’s posture remained, but his hold on Aziraphale’s hand was heart-wrenchingly gentle. He sighed, looking for all the world as if an executioner awaited him. “I may have… liked you for a while. Before you knew me. Before my booth was moved over here. I saw you one day about three months ago, after my shift, when I’d decided to just lurk about the grounds for a bit and see what other booths were around. I walked by your stall, and there was this little girl, maybe five or six, who’d lost all her tickets or something I guess, and she was looking at the funnel cakes like she’d never seen one before in her life. And you. You gave one to her. For free, like it was nothing, like it was the least you could do. And you were so… warm, and happy, and bright. Like an angel in a painting.” 

Crowley’s eyes were wide, so very earnest, and Aziraphale felt himself thawing again, melting into the tenderness there. He recalled the introduction of the  _ angel  _ nickname when they’d first met, and it meant all the more to him now. “And Tracy?”

Crowley coughed a bit. “She, um. She saw me staring at you. I may have been standing there for a while.” He glanced up at Aziraphale, embarrassment and redness scrawled across his face. “She wasn’t buying my excuses for a second, so I told her I thought you were wonderful. She said you deserved to be happy, and that she’d help me get. Um. Get closer to you. I was too nervous for a good month or two, but then she roped your friend Anathema into it, and the two of them are a force to be reckoned with when matchmaking is on the line, let me tell you. Plus, Anathema’d liked Newt. She said something about a witchy prophecy being written about him when I asked her about it, and I didn’t want to know more than that. Anyway, she wanted everybody to get a chance to get to know one another too. So Tracy put in the request to change booth slots last month, and. Uh. You know the rest.”

It was like putting on a new pair of glasses. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure how to react. He hated being left out of the loop, but all of his closest friends had been working together to help him, to help everyone. He loved them desperately and would certainly give them an earful the next time he saw them. “All of you were conspiring together the whole time, Crowley?”

Crowley wilted like a sunburnt houseplant. “Ngn. Mnm. Um, yeah. But I swear, I never thought…” He trailed off, gazing in wonder at Aziraphale’s hand still wrapped around his own. “I would’ve been happy just to know you. You’re the best person I’ve ever met. But then. Well.” He looked up at Aziraphale again, hopeful, and all of Aziraphale’s misgivings evaporated. “You can still say no if you want, angel. I wouldn’t blame you. But I’d love to take you out on Sunday, even as friends. And if… If you still want something more with me. I’d be very,  _ very  _ happy with that too.”

The energetic fairgoers shouted outside, the hum and creak of the rides rang in the air, the lights of the hundred signs flashed, and for a moment, Aziraphale cared about none of it at all. “Well, Crowley. I believe I still stand by my decision. By all means, escort me.” With a burst of confidence he’d never experienced before, he lifted their entwined hands to his lips and brushed a kiss across Crowley’s knuckles. “Romantically.”

Aziraphale watched as the blush Crowley’d been sporting for the last several minutes spread to the tips of his ears and felt very proud of himself indeed. 

Come what may, he knew that this Valentine’s Day with Crowley would be the first of many, many more.


End file.
